Killing Time
by mossley
Summary: How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime ever happened? GSR, Greg Sara friendship. Chapter 5 is up. This story is on hiatus until I figure out how to end it.
1. Chapter 1

**Killing Time  
Summary: **How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime ever happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.  
**A/N: **This is the second challenge issued by Marlou. Required elements were: angst, a towel, a pen, a frying pan, a reference to _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, _ 2,000-2,500 word limit, and I could ignore one of them. I obviously dropped the word limit. Thanks to Gibby for serving as my beta, but I claim responsibility for any stray typos.  
**Rating: **Eh, let's go with PG-13 with this version. Might put a higher rated one on my site.  
**Disclaimer:** Honestly, this is not a how-to manual. And I don't own the rights to the characters. If I did, you can bet there'd be some changes.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Standing under the hot spray, Sara Sidle forced herself to relax as the water washed away the grime and tension from her body. By nature germ-phobic, trips to the landfill always left her feeling dirtier than she really was, and the reality was bad enough. Today's visit left her exhausted as well, and thoughts of bed beckoned her to hurry instead of savoring the shower.

The hairs on the back of her neck tried vainly to rise under the watery onslaught, and she snapped her eyes open. The water muffled all sounds, so she still peeked cautiously through the fog on the shower door. There, in the shadows, she barely made out his outline. After a moment, the dark figure went through the motions of removing a shirt, and she easily imagined his ragged breathing as he spied on her.

Smiling to herself, thoughts of bed took on a new meaning. She moved the soapy washcloth seductively across her chest, slowly circling and rubbing, imagining his reaction. When she judged that went on long enough, she started on her legs, further teasing and enticing him. Daring another glance, she saw the spectral pantomime of another hand moving erotically.

Turning her back to the door, her grin broadened as she moved the washcloth more intimately, knowing that he would soon be joining her. Her eyes closed, already anticipating the feel of his hands on her, his lips caressing her flesh.

When the door opened, she didn't turn around; when the hands shoved her roughly against the wall, it was too late to try. As shrieks filled the air and her world went dark, one thought floated in her mind: _Grissom was in Massachusetts!_

The shrieking continued as Sara forced her eyes to open, and she slammed her hand on the alarm clock, swearing as she tried to calm her breathing. Nightmares weren't anything new, and her recent case obviously triggered it, but that was the first time one involving Grissom.

Rolling over, she eyed the empty pillow. It didn't take a genius to figure out why he factored in her nightmares now. He was gone, officially to teach, but the reason didn't really matter. He had left her, and she didn't know what it meant.

Sara reached toward the pillow sadly. No trace of his presence remained, not even a lingering scent, but her memory supplied details of the feel of his stubble on her fingers, the groggy way he tried to bury himself under the covers when the alarm sounded, the small, contented smile every time he opened his eyes and saw her beside him.

Letting out a huff, she drew her hand back and threw the covers off. She had a few hours to kill before heading into the lab, and she wasn't going to spend them moping. Pulling off her sweat-soaked pajamas, she marched to the bathroom, ignoring the residual shudder as she approached the shower.

One advantage of his absence was she didn't have to explain the nightmare. They bothered him more than they did her, and she always felt a tinge of guilt at his discomfort. Grabbing a fresh towel from the shelf, she wiped at her eyes and tried to stop thinking about how he'd be soothing her if he had been there.

Grissom would be back in a few weeks, and she'd know then if it was to her.

* * *

By the time she reached the lab that evening, Sara was in a better mood. Nightmares always left her tense, but a hot shower, a lot of coffee and two hours of house cleaning forced the haunting images from her mind. 

Unfortunately, it hadn't done much for her doubts.

Logically, she knew there was probably no reason to worry, but the fact remained that good things did not happen to her. It was a lesson learned so often she considered it as much a universal truth as Planck's constant. Everything positive in her life resulted from hard work on her part. But her relationship with Grissom went beyond good.

When they finally got together, she'd expected him to remain the same eccentric, somewhat emotionally unavailable man he'd always been. And he hadn't changed. Instead, she learned he had depths that she never expected. He had rebuilt his entire world to make room for her. What he couldn't vocalize he showed by action. If he remained possessive, it was because he cherished her. She thought things would level off with time, but the feelings kept growing stronger. It had been a new experience, and nothing in her life prepared her for it.

So when he had told her that he was leaving for a month, she immediately thought the worst. She wasn't able to reconcile his actions with their happiness. If he wanted to teach, as he said, there was no reason to go halfway across the continent. The fact that he had dropped it on her suddenly and as a done deal hadn't helped.

She wanted to believe he wasn't trying to get away from her, and everything he'd done for her before his sabbatical screamed that he would return. But three decades of a crappy life left its mark, and in the back of her mind she feared this was his way of calling it off. _What he couldn't vocalize he showed by action._

Heading into the locker room, her doubts immediately became unimportant. Greg stood in front of his locker, meticulously straightening his tie over the suit on a clothes hanger. When he continued to do so distractedly for half a minute, she frowned. She hadn't expected him to be the same happy-go-lucky jokester he'd been before his attack, but the nearly constant melancholy air around him was worrisome.

"Late court date?" she asked with more levity than she felt, setting her bag into her own locker.

"Huh? Oh, no," he said, putting away the hanger and closing the door quickly. He darted his eyes to the side, letting his shoulders roll when he noted her concern. "Attorney."

"I thought you talked to them the other day."

"That was the department's rep. I got my own," he said. "The department's lawyer is looking out for the department. Not me."

She couldn't stop her scowl as she said, "That's probably a smart idea."

"Grissom's advice, actually. He made sure to talk to me about it before he left," Greg said quickly. "It's funny. I used to think that he didn't like me. Well, honestly, I get the impression he doesn't like people in general. But then he's there when people need him. Guess he's not the misanthrope everyone thinks he is."

Her eyebrows shot up at that comment, but otherwise she kept her expression neutral. When it became clear his statement didn't carry any other meaning, she forced herself to relax. Recognizing that he was deliberately changing the subject, Sara went along. "Grissom can be, uh, surprising," she said honestly.

"Yeah. Well, I have evidence to process. Catch ya later."

"Yeah," she said, watching him leave with a growing sense of anger. Greg was already suffering doubly from killing the gang member and his brutal beating. He didn't deserve the added stress and guilt of a baseless lawsuit. She made a mental note to drag him to breakfast after shift; even if he didn't want to talk, knowing he had friends would help him.

It turned out to be a slow night, and she took advantage of the break to catch up on her paperwork. The public didn't realize how much of it they had to file: chain-of-custody forms, evidence logs, diagrams and reports, test results, preparing for court. Once Grissom groused that there were probably documents to request documents to document their documents. If he had one clear character flaw, it was his unreasonable belief that if he ignored something long enough it would go away, and she wouldn't be surprised if he had a pile of old memos composting in the back of a desk drawer.

Opening the first folder, she paused as she realized just how much she missed him. Under the pretense of getting a file, she stole into Grissom's office. The very room bore his personality, and she found it strangely reassuring. She saw his desk and was unable to contain a smug smile at the stack of envelopes, folders and packages already piling up there. He wanted a break; let him deal with the backlog of paperwork it created. It was the perfect cosmic justice.

Her smile changed subtly as she looked into the terrarium. The cocoon was unchanged, and she took a moment to watch it wistfully. The only communication she had with him since he left, and he hadn't even bothered to include a note. She gave her head a knowing shake; that was just like him, and it didn't upset her. Besides, who else but Grissom would think to send a bug in the mail as a gift to a distant lover?

It had to have some sort of symbolism, but she didn't dwell on it. He was too unique, and trying to decipher his reasoning was usually an exercise in futility. She just hoped the thing was able to live in Las Vegas after it hatched; she would be pissed if he intended to kill her bug and add it to his collection.

With a last, thoughtful look, she left to face her paperwork. It was nearly the end of shift when she made it to the Li file, and the memories came forth vividly. True, the case had been bizarre, but that wasn't what triggered the flashback.

* * *

"Do you know that eighty percent of women admit to faking an orgasm?" Catherine asked her as they lugged a complicated device into the garage. 

"I can believe that," she answered firmly and fatefully. "Is there anything more fragile than a male ego?"

"The male ego after finding out that he isn't the stud he thinks he is," she laughed, and Sara joined in heartily as they tried to figure out what end of the machine went up.

Mr. Li had made the contraption after a lover's quarrel, but all it managed to do was break his own foot when he tried to set it. Trapped, he had to call 911 to rescue him, and in pain he whimpered about his wife saying she was going to get a better lover. He refused to answer questions about what the machine was supposed to do, or why he had just bought a two million dollar life insurance policy on his wife.

During the shift, most of the lab ended up stopping by as they tried to figure out what the thing did, but Sara noted that Grissom hadn't. She was more confused to find out that he had already left the lab in the morning; they had tentative plans to go to Lake Mead for breakfast to start their shared day off.

Worried that he wasn't feeling well, she headed directly to his townhouse, but it was empty. She tried to phone him, but he didn't answer or return her calls. Deciding something had distracted him, she went to bed. It wasn't the first time that he'd gotten wrapped up in something and forgotten to let her know. If nothing else, he'd be apologetic later, and she like the way he apologized.

Things seemed really odd when she woke up in his bed alone, and she stopped short at the sight of him sleeping on his couch. She thought that he had a migraine, but then she spotted the bottle of scotch. Totally confused, she started a pot of coffee before disappearing into the bathroom.

"Hey," she greeted him warmly when she came out and found him making sandwiches.

"Sara."

The greeting was casual, too casual. She suspected something was bothering him, but he was trying hard not to show it.

She poured him a cup of coffee, and he thanked her perfunctorily. Frowning, she leaned against the counter and sipped her mug as she watched him appraisingly. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

"I have no complaints."

She raised an eyebrow as she waited for the caffeine to kick in. He sounded upset with her, but he had made her favorite sandwich. She tried to remember anything that would explain his behavior, but he'd been in a good mood the last time she talked to him.

"Do you want to clue me in on what's going on? 'Cause I'm a bit lost," she finally told him in a soft voice.

"What makes you think anything is wrong?"

"Well, Griss, let's start with the fact that you won't look at me."

After a moment, he looked up, and the pain in his eyes made her gasp. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head and went back to the living room. She curled up by his side on the couch, taking his hand in hers. She tried to caress his face with her other hand, but he shifted out of her reach. "Babe?"

"You should have told me," he finally said with a trace of anger.

"Told you what?"

"You know!"

"Uh, trust me, I'm pretty sure I have no idea what the hell is going on," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "What did I do that made you so upset?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were disappointed?" he demanded in a strained voice. "I'd have made a better effort if I had known."

"I don't know …"

"That you're faking it!" he snapped, a blush creeping up his face as he jumped off the couch.

"What? You can't be serious."

He turned to her with a sad look on his face. "I heard what you said to Catherine. I was planning on helping you with that thing."

"Wha… you think I was talking about you? Why would you think I was talking about you?" she stammered.

"You were pretty damn adamant about it!"

"Well, yeah, but you know I wasn't a virgin when we hooked up. I've never faked anything with you. I've never had to."

He looked over his shoulder hopefully, but he chewed his lip.

She let out a sigh, glancing around the room as she gathered her thoughts. When she turned back to him, she had a slight smile. "Grissom, what color is my toothbrush?"

"Huh?"

She walked to him and rubbed his arm soothingly. "Do you know?"

"It's white with sort of grey and teal highlights. That's the one here. You have a red one at your apartment, and you keep a translucent green one in your locker at work."

"Where do I usually get gas?"

"The station on the corner two blocks due east from your apartment complex. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Everything," she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "Griss, you notice everything, even meaningless details. Don't you think you would realize if I was balancing my checkbook while you were going to town?"

His mouth dropped open, and she bent forward to kiss him softly. "You don't disappoint me."

"I know I'm, well, out of practice. And at my age, I can't, uh," he paused, his hand gesturing vaguely. "Can't give you all the attention you deserve."

"Have I ever given you any hint that I wasn't satisfied by your, uh, service?"

"I know you," he said, brushing a lock of hair away from her face with infinite tenderness. "You wouldn't tell me if you were unsatisfied. You wouldn't want to hurt my feelings."

Before she could stop him, he kissed her forehead and went into the bathroom. Letting out a frustrated growl, she started back to the kitchen, but her steps grew slower as an idea came to her.

"Here," she said when he emerged later, shoving the printout into his chest and smirking at him.

"A news story that nerds make better lovers?" he sputtered as she started undoing his shirt.

"I remembered reading that. Figured you needed to. It nails everything about you that makes you so good," she said.

He scanned the document, his face remaining a mask even after he finished. "You really think I'm a nerd?"

Sara stopped kissing his chest and felt like banging her head against it. Leaning back, though, she had to grin. He had a great poker face – except when he was teasing her; he couldn't control the twinkle in his eyes.

"Sure. Funny hats, baggy pants," she purred, running her hands over his belly and smirking as he drew in his breath.

"You gave me that straw hat, so I don't know why you tease me about it" he said, closing his eyes as her hand drifted lower. "And, oh, yeah. Uhm, what about my clothes?"

"We are both off tonight," she reminded him gently. "Do you want to talk about your wardrobe or get in touch with your inner nerd?"

He opened his eyes and grinned broadly before answering.

* * *

Giving her head a small shake, Sara tossed the folder back onto the pile and released a drawn out huff. That was the last thing she needed to be thinking about – it was too long until he came back. Rubbing her cheek, she glanced at the clock and started putting her files away. 

Heading down the hallway to find Greg, she stopped when she heard him on the phone. She wandered to the locker room to let him finish in private, but Catherine cornered her with a smile that seemed almost too eager to be genuine.

"Hey, have any problems tonight?" Catherine asked.

"No," she answered carefully. Sara never understood where she stood with the blonde, especially when she was acting supervisor. They worked well together most of the time, but they weren't exactly friends, so the overly-friendly tone made her suspicious.

"Good, but if you need a hand with anything, give me a holler."

"Okay," she said as she ducked into the locker room, her eyes darting to the side as Catherine joined her.

"You're heading home already? Your face is awfully flushed. You feeling all right?"

"Eh, fine," Sara said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She had started cutting back on her overtime long ago at the insistence of her PEAP counselor, and the gradual increase in time off went unnoticed by their colleagues after she hooked up with Grissom. They both worked overtime on priority cases, but their definition of priority had narrowed considerably. She made it a point to not change her schedule when he left – it wasn't just a matter of being discreet, but because she wasn't going to let his departure disturb her life.

The purpose of Catherine's questioning wasn't lost on her. Ever since she let Keppler pull that "reverse forensics" stunt, she'd been trying to get back on the team's good graces. Warrick was trying to smooth things out, but Nick was angry. No one knew what Greg felt. Sara kept her own feelings on the incident private, and there was no way she was going to explain her flush.

"Just getting older. You know how it is," she said in a calm tone.

Catherine let out a resigned sigh. "Yeah, I do."

It was her hurt expression that made Sara shrug her shoulders. She wasn't cruel, and Catherine obviously regretted what happened. She was used to being the people person on the team, and her isolation had to be unsettling.

"I want to take Greg out for breakfast. I think this court thing is getting to him," Sara said quietly.

"Do you think he'll talk to you?"

"I wasn't going to ask him anything. Just let him know he has friends."

Catherine gave her an approving nod. "That's a good idea. Are you taking any… the others with you?"

Before she could answer, both women turned when Doctor Robbins called out, halting at the locker room door.

"What's up, doc?" Catherine chirped.

"Ah, that never gets old," he sighed, pointing to Sara with his cane. "Just the person I need to see."

"You have a body in the morgue?" Catherine asked, looking as confused as Sara felt. None of her cases lately involved corpses.

"That's what I need her to tell me," Robbins said with a mysterious look.

* * *

"Mr. John Dough. I am not joking about the name. Found night before last, brought in as a probable drug overdose," the doctor informed her as they entered the morgue. An emaciated body was spread on the slab, and she noticed the telltale marks on the arms from long-term drug use. 

Her head tilted in confusion. Drug overdoses were relatively common, and it wasn't something they usually investigated criminally. "Tox results?" she asked after he seemed hesitant to continue.

"Heroin in his system," he said, handing her the chart.

"This is a high dose."

"Probably fatal if you had that much, but for someone who abused drugs for years? Not necessarily."

"Do you have a cause of death?" she asked.

"As far as I can tell, it was heart failure."

"Not uncommon with addicts," Sara said, frowning when he drummed his pen on a stack of folders. She'd seen Doc amused, tired, irritated and bored. Never in all the years in Vegas had she seen him look so uneasy. "So what was unusual?"

He tossed the pen across the desk and waved to the drawers behind him. "The fact this is the sixth drug addict found dead in that area in the past three weeks. All apparently of heart failure. None of them with drug levels high enough to be unquestionably fatal."

"That seems high. No pun intended."

"Yes," Robbins said, lowering himself into a chair and frowning. "But strictly speaking not impossible. Heart, liver, kidneys – poison yourself enough and eventually one of those organs is going to fail."

"Not impossible," she agreed, leaning against a bench and wrapping her arms around her midsection. "But maybe improbable. There had to be another factor."

"I had Trace run a sample from the needles from the scene. No sign of contamination."

Sara shrugged. "But Trace can't check for every compound out there. If the heroin was cut with something exotic, they may not find it."

"Exactly. I had David call Narcotics. There's no talk on the street of bad drugs going around. If it's a tainted supply, it's in a very limited area."

She watched him silently for a moment. The deaths did seem to be high, but they both knew that wasn't conclusive. The odds of a gambler throwing a dozen sevens in a row at the crap table were next to zero, but it was a possibility that occasionally cost casinos a fortune.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?" she asked.

He grunted, shifted in his seat and finally looked up at her with a befuddled expression.

"What do you know about potassium?"

The question seemed odd, but she knew him well enough to know there was a reason for it. "Atomic number nineteen. It's one of the alkali metals; lithium is the only metal that's less dense. Reacts violently with water, oxidizes immediately in air. It's the seventh most abundant element, but it's never found in a pure state," she rattled off, stopping when he burst out laughing.

"Sorry," he said between guffaws. "That was my mistake. What do you know about it medically?"

"It's an electrolyte," she answered hesitantly. "Too much or too little in the body is dangerous."

"Deadly, as a matter of fact. The body regulates it carefully to keep the levels balanced."

Sara gave him an appraising look. "Potassium chloride is the lethal part of lethal injections."

"Exactly. It causes the heart to stop beating. And it's also the drug of choice with mercy killers in hospitals and nursing homes," he said.

"An elderly patient in critical condition going into heart failure at a hospital isn't likely to draw attention," she admitted, turning to him quickly as she nodded toward the body. "What were the potassium levels in your addicts?"

"I didn't check," he said, holding up his hand to quiet her. "Remember I said that the body regulates potassium levels. It stores it throughout the body to use when needed. One of the first things to happen when a person dies is the body releases all the stored potassium. Every corpse would have potassium levels that seem through the roof."

Sara gaped at him for a moment. "There's no way to tell if they were injected with it?"

"And remember when I said it was the drug of choice of mercy killers? Forensically, it's almost impossible to detect potassium poisoning."

"Almost?"

"It causes a unique disruption on an EKG, but it's not likely anyone was measuring these guys' heart rates when they died."

Sara gave her head a shake. A poison that doesn't leave a trace? If it was a poisoning; many things caused heart failure. "Is there any reason you think it was potassium poisoning and not something else?" she asked.

He cleared his throat and gave her a sheepish shrug. "Nothing concrete. Look at the vein sample in the microscope."

"What the hell?" she said as she examined the damaged tissues.

"Have you ever gotten salt in a wound? Imagine injecting a highly-concentrated salt solution directly into a vein," Robbins said, smiling when she visually winced. "Sorry. The effect is similar to acid damage."

"They don't do that with lethal injections, do they?" she asked in shock.

"No! Potassium chloride is a very commonly used drug, but the dosage varies considerably. Medical supply companies sell it in concentrated form, and it's diluted before use. Well, it's supposed to be. There are a handful of accidental deaths every year because someone used a concentrated solution."

"It's common, which means it's probably not too hard to get a hold of it," she mused, frowning as she worked through the facts she already had. It didn't take long. "Are you ruling these a homicide?"

"No," he said firmly. "There's absolutely no evidence that these were anything other than what they appear to be."

"Except you have a hunch that they really aren't," she said with a friendly smile. "I didn't know you were fond of chasing wild geese."

"I am the chief coroner of Clark County. I do not go on wild goose chases," he said meaningfully, but then he gave her a wink. "But I can have you check into a suspicious death. Inconspicuously."

Her head bobbed slightly. There wasn't enough evidence to justify a full-blown investigation at this point, but it was damn strange. "To see if they died from an undetectable poison?" she quipped.

"Or something else," he sighed. "I don't believe their deaths are a coincidence, but stranger things happen. The only thing I can find physically wrong with him – that isn't a direct result of drug abuse – was that vein. Even that isn't definitive."

"Something caused that damage," she said, wincing again at the thought of a salt-water injection.

"But I don't know what. Trust me – I've seen addicts who shot up anything they could get into a needle. I can't even say precisely when that injury happened, just that it was within a day of his death."

"The other bodies?"

Robbins gave her a short look. "I didn't have any reason to think there was anything odd about them. Professionally, I can't request an exhumation on a hunch."

"Yeah, individually there's nothing suspicious about any of the deaths. It's all of them together that's odd," she said. "If it was potassium chloride, how would I find out? I take it the police didn't find a bottle of it with any of the bodies."

"I wouldn't have you down here if they did," he said with a smile. "You already noted the first clue – the odds of multiple addicts dying of heart failure in the same area in a short time frame are pretty slim. It's how they caught the mercy killers. An unusual number of deaths triggered suspicion. A review of the deaths showed one nurse on duty with each death."

"And you want me to review all the drug addicts dying of heart failure in the city to find all the people that were present at each one?" she joked.

"Well, personally I'd start at the scene where Mr. Dough was found. The police only gave the scene a cursory exam since there was no sign of foul play."

"You mentioned accidents. Could this be one? An addict found or stole a vial of potassium chloride and didn't know what it was? They die, but some other addict finds the bottle and takes it before the police get there."

"I've thought about that. I guess it's a possibility. But in the concentrated form, it hurts like hell when it's injected. Maybe they wouldn't notice the pain if they were already high on something else first."

"Or if they were high enough not to stop someone else from injecting them," she muttered. "Which also explains why there wasn't any of it around."

"I've thought of that, too," Robbins said softly as he stood up. "Look, we don't know if this is a murder, tainted drugs or a statistical fluke. But I'll put out word to the police to let you know if any more bodies are found. If this is a killer, I don't think they're going to stop with six addicts."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Killing Time  
Summary: **How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime ever happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.  
**A/N: **I forgot to list one of the elements required – the quote, "I remember this from when I was young." Thanks to Gibby for serving as my beta, but I claim responsibility for any stray typos.  
**Rating: **Eh, let's go with PG-13 with this version. Might put a higher rated one on my site.  
**Disclaimer:** Honestly, this is not a how-to manual. And I don't own the rights to the characters. If I did, you can bet there'd be some changes.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"I feel cheated. You don't even have me spread out on a couch."

Sara paused in cutting her waffles, looked up and saw Greg watching her intently as he leaned over his plate. Setting down her knife and fork, she cocked her head quizzically as she waited for an explanation.

"If you're going to play psychoanalyst, I insist on a couch. It's traditional."

Taking a leisurely sip of coffee, she waved to the waitress to refill Greg's juice. The diner was fairly busy that morning, but no one else from the lab was there. It was a good place to chat, but she hadn't mentioned her concerns, instead hoping he'd feel comfortable enough to talk. Considering his look, she decided that insisting he join her for breakfast probably hadn't been the most tactful approach. But he didn't seem angry, at most maybe a bit weary.

"Actually, I'm not sure how traditional the whole couch thing really is. And I haven't asked you a single question," she pointed out lightly after the waitress left.

"Technicality. Now, if you want to play doctor, I'm game," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Ah, no."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Just don't try too hard," she said in a mock-warning, earning a brief smile. Going back to her breakfast, she stole glances as he pushed his omelet around his place, finally taking a few bites when he noticed her attention. She tried not to stare when he started to shred his paper napkin into tiny strips.

"So, Dr. Freud, what is the significance of my destroying a helpless object?" he asked when he looked up and let the pieces of paper flutter to the table.

"That you have a deep-seated fixation on sex. And your mother."

His eyes snapped open wide and she grinned. "I think that pretty much summarizes all of Freud, doesn't it?"

Out of the blue, he let out a sigh. "Everyone keeps…"

When he paused for a long time, she mimicked his position, leaning closer and lowering her voice for a semblance of privacy. "Don't feel like you have to tell me anything, Greg, 'cause you don't. But I can listen if you need to rant."

His voice was tight when he continued. "Everyone keeps telling me I did the right thing. Like that makes a difference. I killed a kid. I took his life, and I can't give it back."

"I understand."

Cocking his head, he stared at her for a moment. "I think you're the only one who really does. It's why you always said you'd never kill someone. You knew what it would mean."

She gave a brief nod. More than the others, she knew firsthand the damage done by murder, the disruption in the lives of the survivors. It was a pain she swore never to inflict on another, a responsibility she'd never assume for herself.

Greg hadn't intended to kill James, had only been trying to protect another man, but the consequence of his actions carried an indisputable finality. For all his bluster and impishness, he had a sensitive soul, and it wasn't hard to imagine how difficult this was for him.

"I wouldn't kill someone, but you weren't trying to kill that gang member," she said. "I know the result is the same, but you can't dismiss the circumstances."

"I know! And if I had done nothing, James probably would have killed Mr. Tanner. So I'd have been responsible for his death if I hadn't _…_stopped_…_James."

He dropped his head, and Sara waited quietly for him. She understood his guilt, and she knew she'd feel the same in his place. But as far as she was concerned, Demetrius James forced Greg's hand. Her rage at his suffering flared, but she kept it hidden; it was the last thing he needed to see. Right now, he needed a friend.

"I, there are times, uh, God, this sounds really, really bad, but there are times I wish that Grissom had sent out someone else that night," he admitted reluctantly. "I didn't know what to do."

"No one does."

"I mean, you would have handled it so much better. You wouldn't have killed him, you wouldn't have let yourself get caught by_…_"

"Stop," she said firmly but kindly. "You don't know that."

"Come on, you have so much more experience."

She shook her head, reaching across the table to rest a hand protectively on his forearm. "People can say that they'd have done things differently, Greg, but that's a load of crap," she told him gently. The truth was she had considered what had happened, what she would have done differently, but that was with the benefit of hindsight and in the safety of Grissom's arms. She hadn't been there, seen the beating, had to make the life-and-death decision on her own. "No one knows how they're going to react until they're in that position."

"I can't imagine what you coulda done worse," he said with a bitter laugh.

"I panicked. I confronted James with my pistol and let myself get attacked from behind by the gang. Then they killed me and Tanner."

The blunt way she stated the scenario caused Greg to pale.

"And they had my weapon to use on their next victims. They killed three more people before they all died in a massive shootout with the police. A family of tourists got caught in the crossfire. Their baby died, and the father's paralyzed."

"But you can't know that," he insisted.

"That's my point. If you're going to play 'what if', you have to consider every possible outcome, because there is no way to know what would have happened."

"If it's all the same to you, I won't think about that particular consequence. Ever."

"It's a waste of time to beat yourself up over it. Yeah, I know, that's easy for me to say, but I mean it," she said. "You'll drive yourself crazy if you dwell on what-could-have-beens. Life is short. Learn from the past, but don't ever live there. Trust me on that. It's a bad way to get by."

The emotional honesty carried in her voice, and Greg's expression grew curious. She wanted him to know that she understood regret and pain, even if it meant having to reveal her past. When he didn't press for details, she felt a momentary pang of guilt at the relief she felt.

Greg drained his juice and moved his head slightly from side to side. "I understand what you're saying. I know it's true here," he said, tapping his head with a finger. "But, it's hard."

"I can only imagine," Sara said softly, rolling her eyes when her pager went off. "My scene's ready. How do they manage to do that so quickly whenever we want to get breakfast first?"

"One of life's mysteries," he intoned solemnly before grinning. "Don't worry about it."

The waitress, use to sudden departures by lab members, appeared with the check, and Sara paid with her typical smile and generous tip. She waited until they were alone again before pulling a business card out of her purse.

"Uh, here," she said, thrusting it into his hand quickly.

"A PEAP counselor?"

"Yeah. If you need someone to talk to who might have some answers or advice. Uh, he's nice," she said, giving a quick nod at Greg's questioning look and waving goodbye as she left the diner.

* * *

Holding a flashlight and gun at the ready, Sofia led the officers as they cleared the abandoned building. A handful of addicts tried to escape through broken windows, and a few others lay on the floor, too far gone to notice the police.

Sara followed behind the officers, automatically scanning her surroundings and making mental notes. What she saw wasn't encouraging. Broken needles, used condoms and empty bottles covered the floors, indicating that multiple people used the space. Worse, it was all soaked from the rain leaking through the roof.

Sofia called an all clear as the officers herded the last of the addicts out of the building. Setting her kit down, Sara frowned. Even if there were something here that related to John Dough's death, she'd have a hell of a time finding it. Too much time had passed, too many people had been in the building.

A brief cry and a crunching sound caught her attention, and she turned in time to see an officer knocking bugs off his leg and crushing them under his boots.

"Some of Grissom's friends," another joked, and first officer blushed as the others started laughing at his reaction. She joined the soft chuckling, quickly verifying the bugs were typical cockroaches and nothing unusual.

It was telling that in all the years she'd known the officer, she never suspected he was afraid of bugs. No one dared kill any insect at a scene because of the certain knowledge that they would have to answer to Grissom. His absence caused everyone to react differently, but she doubted anyone else missed him the way she did. The whole department depended on Grissom the scientist, but only she knew Grissom the man.

Turning her attention back to the wreck of a building, she looked for anything that would help determine why Dough died. The winter air was cold, but not excessively so. The power company had disconnected service over a year ago, so that made an electrical shock unlikely. The walls were moldy, but she was certain Robbins would have noticed if it contributed to the death. Opening her case, she took a sample to be safe, though.

"Do I want to know who you pissed off enough to get us stuck here?" Sofia asked jokingly as she directed the officers to the front door.

Sara paused for a moment, briefly wondering why Doc had asked her to check into this. Ideas of her tenaciousness and dedication, her ability to be discreet – although Doc had no idea the depth of that talent – floated through her mind before she went with the obvious answer. Now that Grissom was gone, she was the least likely to have a social life to interrupt.

"Doc noted something odd with the guy found dead here," she explained. "He asked me to check it out."

"Odd?"

Taking out her camera, she debated how much to share. She hated withholding information from a colleague, but it was a touchy subject. Neither the lab nor the coroner's office needed a reputation of following hunches, and while the deaths seemed odd, there was no evidence yet that they involved a crime.

"Yeah. Nothing that he can say is a sign of foul play, but_…_"

Sofia gave her a nod. "Gotcha. He wants answers, but he doesn't want to get the mayor in a tizzy over investigating something that might not be anything. So, what are we looking for?"

"You know, I don't think I have an idea about that at most scenes I process."

Laughing, the detective ran her flashlight along the walls. "That's true. This place is a dump. The wiring's been ripped out of the walls. Probably to sell the copper. Do these guys even realize how little they make for the amount of work that takes?"

"The very first case I had on my own back in San Francisco was investigating a guy who was stealing bricks – from buildings."

"Did you ever find him?"

"Yeah, it was a short case," Sara said, lowering the camera as she reminisced. "He started at the bottom of the wall."

"He didn't!"

"He did. For days after that, I got sick every time I saw a seagull."

"Why?" Sofia asked as she started examining random items on a window ledge.

"Carrion eaters. Those bricks spread him out all over that alley. Three officers tried to keep the seagulls chased away while the coroner gathered him up." Sara made a face at the memory, gave her head a shake and put the camera away. Taking a look at the thick debris on the floor, she exhaled loudly as she uncovered a dead rat. "Lovely."

"According to the officers on this route, this is a favorite hangout for the local druggies," Sofia said. "There's always traffic in here. This place has been compromised since they took the body out of here. Not to mention the rain."

"I know," she said. "There's no way to get evidence in here. It's all contaminated."

"What are you going to do now?"

Sara shrugged as she sat back on her heels. The building was a dead-end, and she considered her next step carefully. How do you proceed when you don't even know there was a crime? What were the options?

If the deaths were a statistical anomaly, there was nothing she could do but wait for the odd streak to end. It was a tragic, albeit not unexpected, end for drug addicts.

A tainted drug supply was a possibility, but one that was likely to be self-correcting. Drug dealers didn't generally kill their money sources, and whoever supplied the bad drugs was probably already dead or permanently out of town. But was it probable? Heroin wasn't the most common drug in the city, but enough people used it. The number of deaths should have been higher, unless a small-time dealer was cutting it for the local population. She'd have to talk to Narcotics to see if they had any names.

Had the dead men found or stolen something lethal? Tox screens were very accurate, but only on substances they covered, and that was a tiny fraction of known chemicals. An addict desperate for the next high wasn't likely to be too discerning about what they injected, especially if it was a medical supply. In that case, it was also likely that the vial was running low by now, possibly even empty, and the rash of unexplained deaths would come to an end.

It was also unlikely that she'd ever find that vial. Some other addict would have taken it before the police arrived. If it had been broken, she doubted the department would free up the resources it would take to test all the broken glass in here, especially considering that the rain probably washed most of the trace evidence away.

The last option was murder. It was the most pressing case, but also the one she found hardest to believe. It would be easier to poison food and place it in dumpsters, or walk into a room like this with a shotgun. One victim at a time suggested something more personal, and what enemy did drug addicts in different buildings have in common? She'd have to check their records, but she wasn't expecting to find anything too helpful.

Robbins mentioned potassium chloride. That meant the murderer had to go into a drug den to administer the deadly shot. That definitely screamed a personal motive, as well as some sort of medical background. He also said it was widely used. How hard would it be to get? It was a lethal drug in the concentrations sold, but it was also just essentially saltwater. She'd have to investigate that as well.

Standing up, she turned to Sofia. "I'm going to drop this off at the lab and go home."

* * *

Long ago, Sara's counselor had told her to stop bringing work home, and she eventually had to agree that it had been good advice. It forced her to stop hiding behind work and to deal with her issues in a healthier manner. She followed the direction faithfully, but she made an exception for the Dough case.

Working at the lab was bound to raise questions, and she'd rather keep this quiet until she had more information. She also needed the diversion.

Too many things reminded her of Grissom. When she read, she missed the feel of his arm around her shoulders while he worked a crossword puzzle. When she watched TV, she missed the sound of his heartbeat and his warmth. She still felt a trace of anxiety from her nightmare, and it was too easy to let the uncertainty of his leaving weigh down on her.

And that was something she didn't want to think about it, half-afraid that she'd convince herself it was over, and then inadvertently driving him away with her distance when he returned. If it was over, then it was over. She'd deal with it when she knew for sure. Until then, she tried to remain positive.

The irony wasn't lost on her; the most stable relationship in her life left her the most shaken. She never really expected her prior encounters to last, although she tried to make them work. With Grissom, she barely had to make an effort. Once together, they simply fell into an easy relationship, and he treated her with a reverence she had never known. The security of it made her open up more than she ever had in the past. She wanted this to work, and the fear that it wasn't slowly chiseled away at her confidence.

Work provided an escape, something to concentrate on other than her own dark mood. She hummed softly as the CD moved to a favorite song, methodically researching one fact after another. After a few hours, she let out a grunt and stretched, looking over the neat columns of information she'd gathered together so far.

The amount of drug arrests in the area increased recently, as developers revitalized neighboring communities, driving the addicts to other areas. A higher number of addicts in the area meant more deaths were likely, but the increase in deaths still seemed unusual.

Dough had only one arrest on his record, and that was from three years earlier. He had managed to avoid trouble since then, at least with the police. If he or the others ran afoul of a dealer, why the subtle death? Typical street justice was bloody to make an example to others.

The other five victims also had records, all with more arrests, mainly for robbery to fund their habits. She found nothing to link them except that they were all male, all addicts, all dying within a five-block radius.

Letting out a yawn, she thought about bed, but her stomach insisted on attention first. Carefully putting her notes away, she headed into the kitchen for a snack. While she was getting out a pot to heat up some soup, she found the frying pan, playfully hidden behind her other supplies, and the memory washed over her.

* * *

"This is a terrible frying pan," Grissom said, frowning as he flipped it over in his hand. "It's too light. It won't carry heat effectively."

"It works," she said. Well aware of her tendency to over-talk around him, she was afraid to say more. He was in her kitchen, offering to fix dinner. The fact that she just realized they had probably – well, possibly – been dating for the past three months only added to her nervousness.

It had started innocently enough. He'd been in one of his moods, discouraging any conversation while he worked in his office. She needed his signature on a file, and that was when she realized the paperwork he was trudging through related to Nick's abduction. She'd left as soon as he signed her form, but she returned at the end of shift with breakfast.

He seemed startled by the gesture, and she gave him a brief smile before making a hasty exit. She suspected the ordeal with Nick bothered him more than he let on, and she didn't want to make him uncomfortable by making a big deal out of it.

Grissom didn't mention it again, but the next week he pulled into an all-night diner on the way back from a crime scene and insisted on buying her lunch. "I owe you a meal."

She tried to tell him that he didn't, saying it was just a gift between friends. His, "Then I really owe you a meal," had made her smile, and they shared a quiet lunch.

Two days later, they worked a case outside of the city, and he had disappeared briefly. When the sun came up, he walked down the road from a truck stop carrying a sack of fruit, donuts and two large cups of coffee. This time they talked about the scene as they ate their breakfast.

It seemed they worked a lot of cases together after that, and it wasn't long before they stopped for another lunch on the way back to the lab. He told her trivia about the music playing in the background, once even making a joke about it. She took the bill from the waitress before he reacted, but the look on his face almost made her laugh.

"It's only fair," she said, giving him a lopsided grin when he reluctantly put his wallet away.

Over the next two months, the number of meals they shared gradually grew, so that now they normally ate together at least four times a week. They didn't even restrict it to returning from crime scenes, but met after work or on their days off. Grissom even told her stories from his childhood.

That had to mean something, but now she wasn't sure what.

He had never made an overt move on her. True, he held doors open for her, held her elbow on slippery pavement, but he'd always been polite. Now that she thought about it, they almost always ate something inexpensive when it was her turn to pay, and always ate in nice restaurants when it was his turn. Even that was probably explainable by his upbringing.

Maybe he was just being friendly. Whatever was going on, she liked it, but she wasn't sure how to react. If this was his idea of dating, she wanted to encourage him. If it wasn't, she didn't want to scare him off.

It was then that she noticed he was watching her with a curious expression. "This kitchen was furnished by someone more interested in the way something looked than the way it worked."

"It works," she repeated, taking refuge in finding a bag of rice in a cupboard.

They had just finished a robbery, and Grissom had noticed a picture in the perp's home. They had a disagreement over who painted it, and while in the parking garage, Sara mentioned it was in one of her art books. He shrugged and asked to see it. He had read the book, agreed she had been right, and then offered to fix dinner. Now he was in her home, and she was suddenly feeling very self-conscious about her pots and pans.

"I can't believe you don't know how to cook," he said profoundly. "It's a mix of chemistry and art. You'd be a natural."

"I can cook. I don't like to cook. Big difference. And there are people that like to cook, and that's how they make their living, so I pay them to cook for me," she gushed out, quickly turning to the sink to measure water for the rice. Over-talking didn't begin to cover it.

Grissom gave her an amused look before searching through the handful of vegetables she had on hand. "It's not very economical."

"I don't eat every meal out," she said. "The overtime adds up. And it's not like I have a lot of vices."

"What vices do you have?"

His voice was soft, with a tenderness she rarely heard from him. She swallowed nervously as she considered her answer. She finally gave up smoking. She drank on occasion, but that topic was sure to spoil the pleasant mood. Finally giving him a grin, she said, "I go out with my boss a lot."

She immediately turned around, silently cursing herself for dropping the 'to eat' from the sentence. If this had just been a friendly overture on his part, he'd be ready to run from the building.

When she turned back, his eyes locked onto to hers, and she couldn't read his expression. "Do you really consider that a vice?"

The question had been unexpected and she responded the only way she could think of. "Uh?"

"A vice is an absence of virtue. Someone vicious is full of vice. It's a deviant behavior, something to be avoided," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Uh," she repeated, backing into the counter as he closed the distance between them. "No. I like it. I like being with you."

"So do I."

"Good," she managed, licking her lips nervously.

She wasn't sure how long they stood like that, staring into each other eyes, neither making a move to breakaway nor to get closer. He seemed to be searching her for a clue, or maybe reassurance. Her heart pounding, she slowly lifted a hand.

He followed the motion with his eyes as it moved closer to his cheek. It hesitated above his beard, and when she finally brushed against his whiskers, he closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. When she started to caress his cheek, he turned slightly, pressing his lips into her palm.

That encouraged her other hand to find his shoulder, and when his arms went around her waist, she didn't resist as he gradually drew her body against his. Locking her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek softly.

His lips found her neck, tenderly nuzzling her skin as his hug grew tighter. He kissed his way upward, eventually reaching her lips. There he hesitated, barely brushing his lips against hers. He repeated the motion several times, always keeping his touch feather-light, tender and teasing at the same time.

Then he broke off, keeping his hands resting lightly on her hips as he stepped back.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing. I don't want to rush you. I know this probably seems sudden."

She blinked several times, her mouth opening and closing as various responses went through her mind. She finally settled on a half-smirk. Leaning forward, she kissed him once, firmly and passionately. When she pulled back, the open desire in his eyes took her breath away.

"Griss, I moved to Vegas to be with you. I've been waiting for this for years. You're not rushing me."

"Oh," he said, slowly breaking into a grin. Looking over his shoulder, he indicated the start of the meal. "How hungry are you?"

"Extremely," she said, waiting a moment before adding, "but not for food."

He laughed lightly, pulling her close for another deep kiss. His hand slipped under her hair, cradling her head as his tongue danced around her lips before dipping in momentarily.

An unexpected blush stole over her face as she nodded in the direction of her bedroom. Brushing his hand through her hair, he cocked his head in question, not moving until she said, "I'm sure."

Kissing her once more, he wrapped his arm around her possessively and let her lead him to her bed and body. Afterwards, he rolled her on top of him, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around her. When he noticed the tear rolling down her cheek, his concern was immediately evident.

"Honey?"

"I'm fine," she said with an embarrassed shrug. "I'm just happy. I've wanted this for so long."

"I'll try to make it worth the wait," he vowed, kissing her softly and cradling her body until she fell asleep.

* * *

"And he did," she whispered to herself, smiling sadly at the memory. Tossing the pan in the sink, she headed to bed, wiping her tears as she went.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

**Killing Time  
Summary: **How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.  
**A/N: **Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others are, but grad school is a little hectic right now. I won't have a lot of time to work on it during the next week, and I didn't want to wait to get something posted. The required elements for the challenge listed previously. Thanks to Gibby for her beta services.  
**Rating: **Ehh, let's go with PG-13 with this version. Might put a higher rated one on my site.**  
Disclaimer:** Honestly, this is not a how-to manual. And I don't own the rights to the characters. If I did, you can bet there'd be some changes.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"I think you lied to me."

Sara's eyebrows rose at the statement, but she made no effort to disguise her amused smile. "I can't help it if you're a good teacher."

"You're a card shark," Grissom insisted, studying the cards in his hand intently. He frowned as he examined the three upturned spades on the table, wondering if she had a flush or even a straight flush. Her overly mirthful mood made trying to read her expression a lost cause.

"Never played before today. Now are you in or out?"

"I'm thinking."

She grinned as she laid her cards face down, folded her hands together and looked at their respective sides of the dining room table. She definitely was winning, a fact that had the self-proclaimed poker expert baffled. "The way I see it, you don't have much of a choice."

He didn't answer, but peeked over the top of his cards with a mock-glare. Whatever he felt about his current predicament, it didn't interfere with his pleasure that she finally agreed to learn to play poker. She smiled as he darted his eyes from his card to her face and back again, trying to figure out how his student had gotten the better of him.

His crusade to teach her started weeks earlier, ever since her offhand remark that watching the game on television was as boring as watching someone else play golf. Doubly confused, he let the golf comment pass, and insisted that she needed to appreciate the subtle psychology and mathematical skills necessary to play poker. Besides, it had been years since he played against someone with her mental abilities, and the challenge intrigued him. They had the day off, and it was too hot to venture outside, so he finally persuaded her with a direct dare of, "You're not afraid, are you?"

She held his gaze easily, his stare doing nothing to rattle her. "You have enough to call my bet this hand, or you could fold. If you do that, you only have enough to ante the next hand. I think I've won."

"You're making a rather serious assumption," he said, pausing to take a sip from his beer. "I'm going to win this hand, which puts me back firmly in the game."

"You have to bet first."

"Fine. I call," he said, leaning back in his chair.

She grinned broadly, shaking her head as she did so. "Then put your bet in the pot."

"I've called."

"Doesn't count unless you ante up."

Grissom tried another glare, but she only chuckled lightly at him. "I did explain the concept of checking, didn't I?"

"Yep, but you already called. Which means you have to bet. And all you have left are your boxer shorts."

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to win this hand. There's no reason to put them in."

Sara didn't back down, fully enjoying herself. "Uh, uh. It's not a bet unless the article of clothing is on the table. That was your rule, if I'm not mistaken."

"I think it was more of a guideline."

"You didn't see me complaining when you had me down to my panties. And I'm sitting in the draft from the air conditioning."

"I did notice the effect it had on you," he said salaciously as his eyes dropped to her chest.

"Perv!"

"There's nothing perverted in admiring a work of beauty," he said calmly.

"That's sweet," she said softly, giving him an openly affectionate look. "But you still have to bet."

He made a face as he studied his cards again, and then examined the cards exposed in the center of the table. She could see him mentally calculating the odds, wondering if the river card would again give her the win.

"Your shorts are coming off one way or another."

"I wasn't this cold-blooded when you were behind," Grissom noted.

"So you admit that you threw those hands to let me catch up?" Sara asked, her eyebrow rising in challenge.

"No," he answered too quickly.

When they had started playing, Grissom had quickly gotten her down to her underwear, a fact that irked her. He folded the next several hands, letting her win back her clothing and some of his. She suspected he did it to keep her interest in the game, but then her luck changed. The next several hands she had won outright, or he had to fold. She exploited her run of luck by betting heavily. As a result, his suit hung neatly from her chair, with his shoes and socks at her feet. She wore his silk shirt, unbuttoned, with his tie wrapped lightly around her waist.

"It was your idea to play strip poker. You said it would be more fun. And it is," she said, shifting position so the shirt exposed more of her cleavage, smiling when he licked his lips hungrily.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," he said, failing again to scowl convincingly after he noticed her amusement.

"I'm not cruel. You can wear this after you take off your shorts," she said, holding up one of his dress socks.

"It's not my feet that I'm thinking about."

"It stretches. If necessary."

"Do I need to point out that the male body doesn't react the same way to the cold?" he grumbled.

"You aren't in the draft. Want the sock or not?"

"Okay, I'll bet the sock and keep my shorts."

"That wasn't an option," she said, dropping the sock back under the table. When he let out a mild growl, she laughed.

"I have seen you naked on occasion. It's not like you're going to shock me," she teased. "So give me your boxers."

"I'll get you a fresh pair from my dresser."

"Nope."

"These are used."

"In use," Sara corrected. "But not for long."

He again peered at her from over the top of his cards. "I'm beginning to think you have a strange fetish."

"Stop stalling, Griss. Time to take off your boxers."

"We could move this to the bedroom," he suggested seductively.

"After we finish this hand," she said, adding a laugh when he rested his chin on one hand while his fingers from the other drummed the table.

He looked up as inspiration hit. "You don't want me sitting naked on the dining room chair," he noted brightly. "It's not very hygienic."

She nodded her consent, and then smiled sweetly at him. His answering smile was short-lived when she answered, "You can stand up."

He mock-scowled at her again, but his eyes showed his passion. Sara realized this particular game was over, but a better one was about to start. His desire was obvious, and she felt her body responding to his visual invitation. She shifted in anticipation as he finally stood up.

Then the shrieking started, and Sara's hand slammed into the alarm clock hard enough to send it skidding across the nightstand.

"Damn it," she muttered as she glared evilly at the clock. Stretching, she turned on the bedside lamp and let out a frustrated sigh. That was one dream she wanted to finish. Her body had responded to it, and she easily imagined the feel of his hands on her, but she knew it was over a week until he returned.

Looking at his empty side of the bed, she came to the conclusion that time _was_ relative, but not in any way that physics understood. All the years of hoping and waiting, of wondering if she was insane for staying in Las Vegas seemed a lifetime ago. The months they had spent together passed too quickly, far too short to possibly accommodate all the happiness she felt during that time. The weeks he had been gone stretched out, and the days until he returned were unbearably long.

Worse was the nagging fear that their short time together marked her allotment of happiness for this lifetime. It wasn't logical, but logic never had much do to with their relationship. If it did, she'd have returned to San Francisco years ago. Instead, she gave in to her heart, and while the wait was long, it had eventually paid off.

Her neglected stomach started complaining, so she gave the clock a final glare, wondering how she could justify blowing it up in some lab experiment. After starting a pot of coffee, she munched on an apple as she waited for her caffeine boost. Walking to her desk, she made some mental notes on areas for further research into the deaths of the city's junkies. Doc had only noticed the strange number of deaths after the sixth one in a short time. If the deaths involved foul play, it was possible that there were more of them earlier, but spread out over a longer time frame that didn't draw attention.

When the coffee was ready, she returned to the kitchen, again feeling a sense of loneliness. After years on her own, she quickly grew accustomed to sharing her time with Grissom until being alone felt unnatural. Everywhere she looked, there was some reminder of his absence, and she missed him bad enough without her subconscious continually mugging her.

As she fixed sandwiches for her dinner and lunch, Sara admitted to herself that her subconscious was probably reacting to the fact that she never acknowledged the gift of the cocoon. Rudeness was a trait her parents had, and so she always tried to be polite. She should have told Grissom that she received it, thanked him for it, but she refused to budge on one issue: It was up to him to contact her.

She knew he wasn't the most communicative of men, but whatever flaws he had, he treated her better than anyone had ever treated her before. There was no question that he was faithful, or about how much he respected her. His good side made up for his social shortcomings, and she accepted them readily.

Grissom considered the phone a work tool, not something for personal use. If he had something to tell her, he preferred to do it directly. The only time he'd ever called her that wasn't about work was to let her know he had a flat tire and was going to be late for their dinner reservation. She had accepted that trait as well when they got together.

People often thought he was unemotional, a mistake of which she was once guilty. The truth was he felt things strongly, but he kept it bottled up. She'd seen glimpses of it – his passion, his desire, his sense of humor, but he kept the darker emotions hidden from her. So working the trying case of their miniature killer, then watching Dell kill himself had to affect him, even if the most he admitted was his shock over the incident. Again, she accepted that without question.

But she needed reassurance. He left her, had made his plans without consulting her. He hadn't realized how upset she was until he said his goodbyes in the locker room. Even after learning how she felt, he made no move to comfort her. The cocoon probably had some symbolism, but she needed something definitive from him, something more tangible than a bug. This was one thing he had to accept about her, and she didn't think she was being unreasonable.

She really hoped she wasn't.

* * *

Once at the lab, it didn't take Catherine long to find her. "So, were you able to tell Doc if that body was yours?" she asked lightly. 

Motioning her into an empty lab, Sara quietly filled her in on the uncertain nature of the case, resisting the urge to comment on how openness and honestly helped the team. It didn't take her long to add the few details she'd found in her research.

"That is weird," Catherine agreed. "You left the lab after shift. Did you work on it at home?"

"A little."

She nodded, and then fished through the assignment slips. "Here's a trick roll. It'll help you."

"Yeah?" Sara said quizzically.

"Mr. Sam Hendrix is the victim," she replied, stressing the last name.

"Any relation to the state senator?"

"We might have been under that impression," Catherine said with a wink. "No one would question if you put in a lot of hours on it."

Sara blinked as realization dawned. They clocked their hours either by case number or as doing paperwork. There was only so much time she could justify spending on a case that appeared not to involve any criminal activity, but Catherine was giving her permission to list her time under another case.

"Thanks," she said, wondering if it was a wise move. She knew Grissom wouldn't approve of the deception; he'd have gone up against the sheriff directly if he felt the case deserved more investigation.

He also wasn't there to make the call.

It proved to be a moot offer when an organized gang raided several all-night grocery stores, leaving three people injured. The entire team ended up working the case, and for the next two days Sara never went home, working straight through processing the abandoned getaway cars.

She managed to catch up with Doc Robbins briefly, who told her that further tests by Trace and Tox failed to find any reason for Dough's death. The mold she found at the scene didn't contribute to his heart failure, either.

The only other work on the case came when she took a phone call from Narcotics. They told her that the only dealer working in the area was Jermaine Nassan, a no-nonsense thug unlikely to either kill his customers or tolerate anyone else selling contaminated drugs on his turf. There was no word on the street of any trouble with those particular addicts, and nothing to suggest a common enemy.

Despite her exhaustion, Sara also noticed Greg's anger the morning they finally caught the robbers. She tried to talk to him, but he shrugged her off, telling her to get some rest.

"It's nothing," he said when she hesitated. "Just had a phone call from my lawyer."

"If you need to rant again…"

"And have you fall asleep in the middle of my session? You look like something the cat refused to drag in."

"You so have a way with words. Don't know why you aren't married yet," she said sarcastically, the effect ruined by her long yawn.

"That's okay, I don't know why you aren't asleep yet. Do you need a lift?"

"I'm fine," she said, giving him a friendly smile before heading to her car.

Once home, she went to her desk and set down the additional files she'd brought with her. It was her night off, and she did not intend to return to the lab, but she'd spare some time for the case. First, though, she needed to sleep. Stripping out of her clothes, she vaguely wondered if she her dreams would pick up where they left off the other night. She didn't think about it for long, because she fell asleep as soon as she got under the covers.

* * *

When the phone started ringing, it took Sara a minute to get her bearings. Despite being tired, she had slept poorly, finally getting up to order a pizza and grabbing a quick shower while she waited for the delivery. Eventually she went back to bed, and judging by the darkness, she'd slept for a long time. 

Climbing out of bed, she forced herself not to get her hopes up. Even if Grissom decided to call her, he wouldn't do it at a time she'd normally be at work. "Sidle," she said sleepily after she found her cell phone.

"You were asleep, weren't you? Sorry, kiddo," Catherine's voice said.

"What's up?"

"I need you to come in. There are more dead addicts."

"Okay," Sara yawned, pulling out a pen and paper to copy down the address. She was about to hang up when her eyes suddenly snapped open. "Addicts? There's more than one?"

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

**Killing Time  
Summary: **How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.  
**A/N: **Thanks to Gibby for agreeing to beta this, and thanks to everyone who left feedback. It's always appreciated.  
**Rating: **Ehh, let's go with PG-13 with this version. Might put a higher rated one on my site.  
**Disclaimer:** Honestly, this is not a how-to manual. And I don't own the rights to the characters. If I did, you can bet there'd be some changes.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Grabbing her kit from the trunk, Sara realized immediately that this scene was different from the deaths of the other six addicts. There were far too many officers present for a simple "overdose", even if there were two victims. As she ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the rundown building, the reason became obvious – the metallic smell of blood permeated the air.

She found Greg just inside the doorway, snapping photos of something on the floor. "Hey," she called out as she drew near. Craning her head, she noted the partial bloody shoeprint on a scrap of cardboard.

"Sara? You came in for this on your night off?" he said, making no attempt to hide his surprise. "I don't think you have to worry about anyone breaking your overtime record."

"Getting tired of my company?"

"It's not that, but, no offense, but you look like you progressed from something the cat refused to drag in to something that the cat puked up."

Wishing she'd taken the time to shower and grab some coffee before coming in, she gave him a dirty look. It wasn't very effective – seeing him in a good mood automatically put her in one. Whatever his lawyer had told him earlier had upset him, and she didn't mind some ribbing if it distracted him from his troubles. "Don't know why anyone would take offense at that statement," she said dryly.

Greg laughed as he scooted around to take photos from a different angle. "The body is in the front room. David's in there now."

"What about the second victim?"

"In the back of the building; I haven't gotten there yet " he said, standing up after swabbing the blood. "But I don't know if there's any connection. The officers said it looks like an OD."

"Looks can be deceiving," she said neutrally.

Moving deeper into the building, she stayed near the left wall, noting the line of bloody prints heading to the door. Rounding a corner, she came across the first body. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but the amount of blood made it a rough estimate. Crouching next to David, she swung her flashlight around the area.

"Arterial spray pattern on the walls. I'm going to guess this guy bled to death."

David bobbed his head absentmindedly as he jotted notes on his clipboard. "Hmm. I counted at least twelve distinct wounds on the arms and neck. It looks like that cut hit the brachial artery, but Doc will have to confirm it."

"Bloody prints head back out the door, but it's a real mess over here. I'm thinking there was a struggle until the guy lost too much blood to fight back. The killer then tracked the blood out."

"It's possible. There are defensive wounds on both palms," he said, turning them over to show the slashes. "No identification on either body."

Sara acknowledged him with a nod but frowned as she studied the pattern of wounds. The majority of knife attacks focused on the same body areas, but with the exception of the neck wounds, none of these did. Like all CSIs, she picked up some anatomy as part of the job, and these attacks didn't seem random. "Keep in mind that I haven't had any caffeine yet, but am I seeing things?"

"I noticed it, too," David said.

"What?" Greg asked as he joined them.

She stood up slowly, her gaze still fixed on the wounds. "If you were trying to kill someone with a knife, where would you aim?"

"I guess the chest. Or the stomach. Try to hit an organ, do some internal damage. The neck is a good target, but that's hard to do unless you're behind or over the person," he said, moving beside her. "And most of these cuts are on the arms. Some are defensive, but the rest aren't typical places you see stab wounds."

"Exactly," she said, turning to David. "The other body?"

"It's down the hall."

"But," Greg began as they left, then shrugging before starting to take more photographs.

She followed David around a corner to where a younger man leaned against the wall, a needle still stuck in his arm. Moving her flashlight slowly, she studied the floor and walls, finally pausing about the midpoint between the two corpses.

"Looks like the blood starts here. Not much. It gets heavier as you get closer to the first body."

"I can't say for certain, but some of the slashes look like they were made from behind," David said.

"So the attack started here. The killer chased him, getting some minor cuts in. The vic probably tripped on one of the empty bottles, and that's when the killer caught up and the fatal cut was made."

Heading back down the hallway, she knelt by the second body, carefully examining the area.

"No sign of foul play back here. There's no blood tracked from the front of the building," she noted. "He was probably dead before the other guy got slashed."

"Liver temps indicate they've both been dead for about three hours," David said in a low voice. "And there's no visible injuries on the body. Nothing to suggest anything other than a natural death."

"Yeah," she said, sharing a meaningful look with him.

Seven addicts dying of no apparent reason was suspicious enough, but Sara was certain now that it wasn't accidental or coincidence. If she read the scene correctly, someone injected a lethal drug into this addict. The slashed victim stumbled on the first murder, and he was killed while trying to get away.

But how to prove it? If Robbins' hunch about potassium chloride was correct, there was no way to detect it in the body. Junkies' haunts didn't usually come with surveillance systems. Even if there had been an eyewitness, it was likely another addict, a group not known for reliable descriptions even when they were aware of their surroundings.

"Make sure you bag the hands on both victims before you take him in. I don't want to lose any trace evidence," she said, pausing when a throat was cleared behind them. She turned to find Greg looking at them with a curious expression.

"Uh, guys, we have someone bitch-slapped by Freddie Kruger out front, and you're worried about the OD guy."

Sara gave him a half-smile and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Or not," he said slowly. Frowning, he examined the body in more detail, nodding his head as he realized what she meant. "There's no vomit or other bodily fluids. I don't think anyone bothered to clean him up, so it's probably not an overdose."

"Not likely."

"This is weird. The slash attack started up there, like both the vic and killer started running from back here. But why? It looks like this guy died quietly, no sign of a struggle."

"I'm going to guess he died of sudden heart failure," she said, standing up and grinning at his confused look. "I'll explain later. You start in front. Make sure you bag any needles and empty drug containers, vials, whatever could hold an injectable liquid."

"Do you want me to call for a dump truck to haul it all back?"

"You wanted out of the lab," she joked. "I'll give you a hand when I get done back here."

"This is payback for the cat comment," Greg muttered good-naturedly as he left.

"Who found the bodies?" she asked the officers gathered near the rear door.

"Stinky Stan, ma'am," answered an older officer. He stepped away from the others to stand next to her. "He lives upstairs."

"Stinky Stan?"

"He was a con artist, ma'am. He stank at it."

"I want to talk to him," she said, feeling slightly irritated by being called ma'am by a man more than old enough to be her father.

"That's not possible, ma'am."

"Okay, first, there's no need to call me ma'am. We all work together," she said, forcing a smile. "And why can't I talk to him?"

"Sorry, ma'… er, miss, uh…"

"I don't bite." Her smile was genuine this time.

"Right. Stan was a con artist back in the old days, when the Mafia ran things. They got tired of his stunts. No one knows exactly what they did to him, but since then he's never been all there," he said, tapping his own head.

"In what way?"

"Stuff spooks him easily. He freaked when he found the bodies. They had to sedate him to get him in the ambulance. He's at University Medical now."

"Does anyone know who the victims are?"

"'Fraid not. We're getting a lot of new druggies in here lately."

"So I've heard," she said. "Has there been anything strange going on?"

"You mean besides all the addicts dying this past week or so? You don't have to be a detective or CSI to notice things," he said with a self-satisfied grin.

"No, you don't," she agreed.

"There's some talk on the street that the local pusher is threatening to kill anyone he catches selling crap here. If anyone knows anything more, they aren't talking," he said, turning to look in the direction of the slashed body.

"Yeah," she told him. "Thanks."

Sara went to work processing the scene, taking extra care to examine the areas where the killer probably stood or knelt while injecting the addict. Like the scene she examined earlier, it was hard to determine what was relevant – the building was littered with debris and obviously used by several people.

She was packing up some swabs when the ringing started. Looking up, she caught sight of a blush creeping up David's face as he read his text message.

"I guess the honeymoon isn't over yet," she said, unable to contain her grin when his blush deepened.

"No," he said with a bashful smile.

"Good for you."

"We were supposed to meet for lunch, but I don't think I'm going to be able to make it."

"She actually meets you in the middle of the night for lunch? Now that's real love."

"She's off tonight and tomorrow. We were going to finish going through the wedding photos and videos."

"And you're helping? I take it back – _that's_ real love," she teased.

"No, I'm glad to see them. I don't think I remember much from the wedding. I was too nervous," David said. "Which reminds me – did you ever get Grissom to dance?"

"That ended up on the video. Wow, that was a … thorough videographer."

Sara's grin froze, and she dropped her head as she packed her samples away. They had been alone when she asked him to dance, hadn't they? Apparently not, and she now wondered how much of the conversation ended up on tape.

* * *

David's wedding had been one of the largest she'd ever seen, with the bride's family and friends flying in from all over the country. It had been a morning service to accommodate the graveyard shift, and most of the team had at least made an appearance She had wanted to go with Grissom, and she laughed when Catherine flatly told him he was going. She had been as surprised as anyone when he replied that he had already RSVPed. 

"I knew you'd want to go," he told her later at home. "And I don't mind going out with you."

Despite his sentiments, they agreed it was best to go separately, and they ended up assigned to different tables at the reception. They spent some time chatting over the early lunch, and he helped her search for the vegetarian items half-hidden among the buffet offerings.

She joined Greg and Nick in dances several times, taking frequent breaks to wander over to his table to chat with him and Doc. He showed no interest in joining them on the dance floor, even after a slightly drunk Catherine literally tried to drag him out of his chair.

When the music started again, she returned to the floor, staying out there until she noticed he was totally alone at his table several songs later. Excusing herself, she grabbed a soda and took a seat beside him.

"Don't ask," he said quickly.

"What?" she shot back with a grin.

"I'm not going out there."

Noting the glare he trained in Catherine's direction, she laughed lightly. "Wouldn't she take a hint?"

"No," he grumbled. "She's stubborn enough when she's sober. I'm going to have to drive her home."

"Probably why she insisted you two drive in together."

He gave a vague nod, smiling slightly at her. "Having a good time?"

"Yeah. But what about you?"

"I'm fine."

"You can join us, you know. I'm not a great dancer, and Nick – well, let's say he's not going to be joining a chorus line anytime soon."

Grissom's brow wrinkled, and he raised an eyebrow at her before replying. "Nick in a headdress and thong. That was a mental image I could have done without. And I'm fine sitting here."

"You know, I'm glad you decided to attend a social event," she said with a gentle teasing. "But you can actually be a bit social at it."

"I'm talking to you," he said, his eyes twinkling with delight. "And we talked at the buffet. I listened to Nick's story about his brother's wedding. I talked to David's in-laws."

"I think you really fascinated them with the discussion on carrion beetles."

"I don't have to go on the dance floor to be sociable," he insisted. "Besides, it's fun to watch people. Doc's wife has been flirting with him all morning. Don't be surprised if they leave soon. Apparently, she really likes weddings."

"You view weddings as a chance to hone your stalking skills?" she said in mock-horror.

"I can't help it if I'm observant," he said, frowning briefly when he noted her concern. "Don't worry about me. I don't mind sitting here."

"You don't have to," Sara said softly. "Why don't you dance with me?"

He shook his head slightly. "Go enjoy yourself."

She looked around carefully, but no one was in the area. "They're starting a slow dance. I'll be gentle with you."

Grissom shook his head more firmly. "I don't dance. I don't want to dance."

"Not even with me? It's a perfect excuse to do it in public."

His eyes snapped up as his head cocked to the side. Realizing that she did want to dance – with him – he smiled slightly. "Later," he promised.

But he left shortly afterwards, leading Catherine out after she had her dance with David. The rest of the graveyard attendees gradually followed suit, but she had been one of the last to leave. When she got home, she tilted her head when she realized one of her Joni Mitchell CDs was playing in the bedroom.

Heading that way, she smiled as leaned against the doorframe. Grissom stood dressed only in his pajama bottoms by the window, adjusting the curtains so a soft light filtered into the room. Her eyebrow went up in amusement when she noticed the covers already pulled back on the bed.

"That's not exactly a song you can dance to," she said jokingly as she crossed the room to his side.

"You like the CD."

"I do," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and brushing her lips over his cheek. "I like you, too."

"I'm glad to hear that," he deadpanned before nuzzling her neck.

Settling against his body, she slowly began to move against him in time to the song. He kept his hands on her hips, his fingers spread out over her rear. After a moment, though, he lifted her and laid her on the bed.

"The song isn't over yet," she said lightly. "I think I'm due a refund on my dance."

"I told you – I don't dance," he said, unbuttoning her blouse and letting his lips caress the exposed flesh. "The only dance I know is the horizontal mamba."

Laughing, she grabbed his shoulders and rolled him over. Grinning at his look when she straddled his hips, she finished undoing her blouse, tossing it to the floor. Bending over to kiss him quickly, she took his hands in hers and continued her earlier gyrations. When he let out a pleased sigh, she bent forward again.

"I'm pretty sure we've done the Electric Slide at least once before," she purred. "But I can give you a refresher course."

"The what?" he muttered distractedly. "You're making that one up."

"You don't remember this?"

He grunted incoherently, then said, "Better give me another reminder."

* * *

Clearing her throat, she turned to David. He didn't seem taken aback that she had tried to get Grissom to dance, so the video couldn't have caught the entire conversation. "I never got him on the dance floor," she answered when he looked up quizzically. 

"I guess that's not really a surprise," he said, waving to his assistants to cart the bodies away. "See you back at the lab."

"Bye," she said, letting out a relieved breath as she packed away her equipment. Both she and Grissom respected their privacy, but she was starting to wonder about the observational skills of her colleagues. For all their discretion, she knew both of them blew it on occasion, especially with the looks they shared. She found it amazing that no one had caught on to them yet.

As she picked up her evidence bags, thoughts that there was nothing left to hide came unbidden. Letting out a disgusted sigh, she started up the hallway. She'd survived a violent childhood, less-than-stellar foster homes, struggled through college without outside help and established a career on her own. She had endured Grissom's earlier periods of distance and coldness, but now his absence was causing her more trouble than was logical.

It wasn't so much that he left – everyone eventually needed a break – but he never even asked her if she minded. He either didn't consider her feelings, or he just assumed that she would be fine with his leaving. Neither option was really very comforting.

He also never asked her if she wanted to come along, and that made her wonder if he actually needed a break from her. She'd have gladly taken some vacation time to visit him, if he had wanted her company.

Everyone knew Grissom wasn't the most socially skilled person in the world, but Sara readily accepted that it wasn't her best area, either. She obviously missed his growing unease, and that made her question how good of a companion she had been. What else had she missed? What else did he want that she hadn't supplied?

Deciding not to fret over it, she moved up the hallway to help Greg finish processing the building. He gave her a fake scowl as he pointed out the large stack of evidence bags he had already collected.

"Think of the overtime," she retorted flippantly.

"I'm going to need it," he sighed. Looking up, he gave her a slight shrug. "Attorneys don't come cheap."

"No, they don't."

After a long silence, his spoke again, his underlying anger coming to the surface. "She told me that there's a good chance that the city is going to settle this out of court."

"They normally do."

"I just want to know how I became the bad guy in this," he said shortly as he labeled another sample.

"You're not," she said, sorting through the trash in the far corner. "It's the … safe alternative."

"You think a jury would agree with Mrs. James?"

"Not if I was on it," she said, pausing long enough to give him a reassuring smile. "But you never know how a jury is going to react. OJ got off free, and there was tons of evidence to convict him."

He snorted, shifting position to start examining a new section of the floor. "That kid went out and killed someone for a hobby. And he's the victim. The legal system is seriously screwed up."

"It seems that way at times."

"It's not like I tried to kill him. That's the part that really burns. He was trying to kill people. I was trying to save a life. And I'm to blame."

"It's not a matter of blame. It's politics, economics, whatever what you want to call it," she said, knowing that the words didn't offer much comfort. The scenario was ridiculous, and she couldn't understand why the city was bowing to the pressure. It wasn't a case of excess force or carelessness. Demetrius James was killed while in the act of trying to murder another man.

"Try saying that when you're in this position," he said, rolling his shoulders when she gave him a sad look. "Sorry. It's … frustrating. I don't think I did the wrong thing, I certainly didn't enjoy it, but the city doesn't agree. Didn't mean to rant like that."

"Hey, anytime you want to rant, I'm here," she said.

"Well, we're going to be here all day if we don't get back to work."

"Greg," she said wearily. "We're going to be here all day anyway."

The task did take several hours to complete, and they were well into a double shift when they packed the last of the evidence into the Denali. Convinced that the other deaths involved foul play, she directed him to each of the other sites where a body had been found.

"What are we doing here?" Greg finally asked when they walked down a dank alleyway.

"Context." She knew it was impossible to find useful evidence so many days after the deaths, but she hoped to find something that linked the deaths. So far, she couldn't see it. Four victims had been found in buildings, one in an alley, one in a dumpster and one in a car.

"How long am I going to pay for the cat comment?" he quipped. "Because I said it in your best interest. You do look tired."

"Out of practice, I guess."

"If I promise to tell you that you look as pretty a daisy and fresh as a posy will you tell me what I'm missing?"

"Your brain?" she said with a wicked grin.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed dramatically. "So, is this one of those things I have to figure out for myself? Okay, neither victim had any ID. Someone robbed the first guy, the second guy showed up at the wrong time, and he was killed and robbed too."

"That's a possibility," Sara conceded. It didn't seem likely, but she kept herself open to the idea. It was one of many lessons Grissom had taught her – if you develop a theory, you tend to ignore any evidence that doesn't support it.

"You don't sound convinced."

"By all appearances, the one victim died of heart failure," she said.

"Not an uncommon occurrence with addicts. A lot of drugs interfere with the heart. Even doses that aren't normally fatal can trigger heart failure."

"Seven addicts in this area?"

"They're not exactly the healthiest group in society," he said with a trace of doubt.

"All in a short time frame?"

Greg let out a low whistle. "Bad drugs?"

"Nothing that Trace or Tox can find," she said.

"The second victim was killed after the guy who looked like an OD," he said, stopping to stare at her. "Maybe he saw something that he shouldn't have. Like someone's killing addicts."

"It's starting to look that way."

"And you don't sound convinced of that either."

She let out a small huff. "If they are being killed, it's with something that doesn't leave a forensic trace."

"Oh, is that all," he joked. "What about those stab wounds?"

"Most knife wounds are to the abdomen. It's also a slow, painful way to die."

"But our victim died pretty quickly because the one cut managed to hit an artery."

"I don't think that was luck," she said quietly.

Greg considered this silently for a long moment. "So you think those cuts were deliberately aiming for arteries?"

Sara shrugged as they left the alley. "I can't be sure, but it looks like it. You can live long enough to at least ID your killer with stab wounds to the chest or abdomen. Your odds of surviving a cut artery are a lot slimmer if you don't get immediate medical care. You lose so much blood in a relatively short time."

"The killer did try the neck. The jugular vein is pretty simple to cut, and the guy would still bleed out quickly," Greg said thoughtfully, moving his arm up over his throat.

"And if he tried to protect his neck, he'd have gotten those slash marks on his arm that we saw," Sara added. "Do you know where the brachial artery is?"

"In the arm somewhere. Which implies that the killer knew enough anatomy to know where to try to hit an artery."

"Yeah," she said, remembering that potassium chloride was a common medical drug.

"But why target addicts?" he asked, jumping when a car backfired in the next street. She saw the brief panic before he closed his eyes and swore slightly. Letting out a slow sigh, he turned to give her self-deprecating shrug. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You're talking to the person who got sick at the sight of seagulls for days."

"What?"

She headed back to the cars, smiling as she did so. "I'll tell you after lunch."

* * *

"Shouldn't we knock first?" Greg asked as Sara pushed open the unmarked door. By all appearances, it wasn't even a commercial building, but she waved him inside. 

"Whoa," he said, a small grin forming as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Screens, draperies, large potted plants and columns divided the space into numerous semi-private cubicles. Taken individually, the interior decorations seemed random and almost tacky, but the combined effect was stunning.

"Thought you'd like it. Wait until you taste the food," she said happily. He'd been embarrassed to be startled by the backfire, but she knew it was a normal reaction given what had happened to him. She hoped the unique experience of Smith's Restaurant would help him relax.

"This place rocks."

Her reaction had been the same the first time Grissom brought her here, and it quickly became one of their favorite restaurants. He had discovered it shortly after arriving in Las Vegas, helping the owners recover a priceless heirloom that had been stolen. Ever since then, they treated him like a member of the family, and she felt she was under inspection the first time they met her. In spite of her unease, she'd been touched to know that there was someone else in the city that cared about him, even if the "Smiths" were different.

Grissom had told her the family had changed their name when they immigrated, claiming it was unpronounceable in English. Given that their appearance and accent seemed to be assembled at random, she had jokingly asked him if they had entered the country via Area 51. His only answer had been a broad grin.

"Hello, Mrs. Smith. Do you have room for two for lunch?" she asked.

The mysterious woman eyed them slowly, gave a grunt as an answer, and led them to the smallest table next to the kitchen door. Sara couldn't help grinning – they were still looking after Grissom even when he wasn't here.

"Thanks. I thought my friend would really appreciate your restaurant," she said in explanation.

After ordering their drinks, she settled into the chair eagerly. She was hungry, and this was the first time she'd come to the restaurant since Grissom left. They had a lot of pleasant memories here, and she wasn't going to let her doubts spoil them, or to interfere with this excursion.

"So, how did you find this place? I've never seen it advertised anywhere," he asked her as his fingers tapped along to the music playing softly in the background.

"A friend showed it to me," she replied with an innocent smile, but Greg's sharp look caught her by surprise.

"A friend?" he cooed.

She blinked at him several times, almost wishing that she'd settled for the diner by the lab. "I do have friends. I know that's surprising, but it's true," she said.

"A male friend?"

"We're not having this conversation," she said, her ire starting to show.

"And you normally come here with him? 'Cause the owner lady didn't seem pleased to see you here with me."

"The fruited couscous with pistachios is really good," she said, giving him a brief warning glare.

"So you do come here with someone else."

"I never said a thing. Or you might like the seitan salad."

Greg actually leaned over the table gleefully. "Sara has a boyfriend!"

"What part of we're not having this conversation don't you understand?" she asked, smiling nervously as Mrs. Smith brought their order of mint tea.

"You're so seeing someone!"

"Greg! Don't keep Mrs. Smith waiting for your order."

"Surprise me," he said eagerly. "You don't fool me, Miss Sidle. The question is why you're hiding it."

"I'm not hiding anything," she answered quickly.

"Yes, you are. Why wouldn't you tell us at work?"

"Because you don't take a hint," she suggested sarcastically.

"No, that's not it," Greg said as he smiled at her irate look. "Okay, obviously it's not Hodges. You still have your sanity. Actually, it can't be someone from the lab. We'd know if that was the case."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she settled for grinning behind her mug of tea. He was being annoying, but since he was also totally wrong, she decided to ignore his ramblings. He continued to jokingly rattle off possibilities, focusing on men she was likely to meet through work, when he suddenly stopped, a serious look crossing over his face. Watching her carefully, he asked, "You're not seeing Hank again, are you?"

Seeing the angry flash in her eyes, he held up his hands in surrender. "Easy, easy. I just wanted to make sure. You can do so much better than him."

"Greg, just drop it," she said lowly. She knew his taunts were meant as a joke, that he'd drop it if he knew how upset it was making her, but it wasn't a subject she was in the mood to treat frivolously.

"Oh. Oh, man," he croaked. "I figured it out."

Sara looked up at him cautiously. His joking tone had completely disappeared, and he was staring at her with a shocked expression.

"There's nothing to figure out," she said, forcing her voice to remain calm.

"No wonder you're so quiet about it. You can't let it get out at work."

"Did you taste any of the evidence, Greg? 'Cause you're losing it." She knew it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out, but she wasn't ready to deal with that now. There'd be too many questions about why Grissom left, and she didn't have the answers.

"No, it makes perfect sense now," he declared, leaning back in his chair with a stunned expression.

She started to warn him off again, but he shook his head slowly. "You and Brass. I never would have guessed."

She stared at him, vaguely aware that her jaw had dropped open. Trying to think of a rebuttal, she noticed the corner of his mouth starting to quiver, and they both broke out laughing at the same time.

"You are so dead," she said, smiling when she saw Mrs. Smith give her a nod of approval.

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

**Killing Time  
Summary: **How do you catch a criminal when there's no evidence that the crime ever happened? GSR, Greg/Sara friendship.  
**A/N: **_School's out for summer…_Believe it or not, I haven't forgotten this story! Here's a little bit to hold you over until next week. The list of elements required in the story is listed in the first two chapters, and this chapter covers the reference to _Hitchhiker's Guide._  
**Disclaimer:** You try to write a relationship story when one party is on the other side of the country. It's not easy. Oh, wrong type of disclaimer. I don't own the show, the characters, and I'm sure not making any money off of them.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Sara stood up and stretched slowly, wincing as her sore muscles complained at the movement. After lunch she had told Greg to go home, but she had stayed behind to start processing the evidence they'd gathered, despite already being exhausted. There was a time when she worked triple shifts easily, but she had grown accustomed to going home to Grissom, and her body didn't appreciate reverting to its old ways.

She needed a hot shower and something to eat, but she didn't want to take the time now that they had a potential lead. Ever since Robbins explained his suspicions about the dead addicts, a thought had been bothering her: how could they charge a serial killer when there was no way to prove the victims had been murdered?

Even if they found the person responsible, there was no way to detect potassium chloride in the body after death, and by all appearances, the addicts died of heart failure. It was a common way for them to die, and more likely than a vigilante risking his life going into a drug den to murder his victims by injection. If the District Attorney even attempted to prosecute, the odds of a conviction were nil.

But now they had an unquestionable murder – someone had to have inflicted the cuts on the one body they found. They had no leads on any of the previous deaths, but this victim had the potential to give them their first clues. This could be the break they needed to stop the killer.

Rolling her shoulders, Sara gave her head a shake. She was getting ahead of herself. Just because she was positive that the cases were all related didn't make it true. Greg's suggestion of a robbery was just as probable at this point, and they had to consider all possibilities, a reality she learned from Grissom. He'd be the first to tell her not to jump to conclusions, although she was positive he'd agree with her idea.

She had researched previous cases where the drug had been used in hospitals and nursing homes, and what she found hadn't eased her concerns any. Occasionally killers confessed when questioned about the number of deaths on their shifts, but not that often. The Las Vegas addicts hadn't been hooked up to heart monitors when killed, and that was the only conclusive way to verify potassium poisoning. If she wanted to solve this, she had to remain objective, be more like Grissom.

Her lips twitched at the thought. In the past, he had often warned her to remain detached, not understanding that her emotional involvement gave her the energy to work the way she did. He was motivated by a love of forensics. They were so different in many ways, but they seemed a natural fit.

Up until he left.

With a weary sigh she headed to the morgue. As she made her way, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to Grissom, speculating on how he was managing in Massachusetts. He didn't particularly enjoy the cold, so she doubted he was brushing up on his skiing or snowboarding skills.

He was used to working long hours, and he didn't have a lot of hobbies. His bugs were safely in his office and home. While he liked watching television, he didn't watch _that_ much. The lectures weren't long, and he certainly didn't need to brush up on his entomology; he could give the talks in his sleep.

So, how was he spending his time?

A lot of people found his lectures boring, but he had fascinated her from the beginning, and she wondered if he was managing to entice any other students this time around. Anyone attending a seminar like that had to appreciate intelligence. Unwilling to dwell on the subject, she forced thoughts of Grissom from her mind, and she picked up her pace.

Entering the morgue, Sara nodded in response to David's wave and headed to stand next to the coroner. "Have any answers?"

"To Life, the Universe, and Everything?"

"I'll settle for my two corpses," she said with a grin.

"Too bad. I know the answer to my questions." Robbins set down his file and hobbled to the first body. "We sent ten-cards up from both victims. This is Karl Hoffstetter. Cause of death is exsanguination. No real surprise there," he said, indicating a gash on the body's arm. "The cut transected the brachial artery."

"Not trying to step in your territory, Doc, but it looks like the killer was trying to hit an artery."

"I'll give you that. Besides the obvious neck wound, these gashes are in the vicinity of the ulnar, radial and radial collateral arteries. Personally, I would have gone for the femoral artery, or started with the brachial artery; it's close to the surface as it nears the elbow. Would have been fairly easy to cut it there."

"So, we're talking about someone with medical training," Sara said.

"Maybe," he drew out. "It's not an approach I'd try. Every body is different. How thick the bone is, how much fat there is, how developed the muscular is. A doctor knows the general area where an artery will be, but I can't stab into your arm with the guarantee that I'll hit an artery."

"But these were slashes, not stabs. That increases the odds of doing damage."

"True. But the real reason for that is the blade was extremely sharp but not very long. Yes, possibly a scalpel."

"So, it's someone who had a general idea of anatomy and used a scalpel as a weapon," she said, frowning as she leaned against the desk. "But they don't know enough to know they were taking a risk going for an artery."

"Or they were surprised," he said, picking a printout from his desk. "Hoffstetter's Tox screen."

"He was drunk and stoned."

"And he had chronic liver disease. He'd have died in a few more months at most."

Sara stared at the doctor. "There was no way he could have put up much of a fight, even accounting for an adrenaline rush."

"Not really."

"But he did. So why did the killer have trouble subduing him? Panic, lack of experience?"

"Or not very strong," Robbins said with a shrug. "I only deal with the corpses. Can't help you in that regard."

"Can you help with the second body?" she asked with a grin.

"No hit on AFIS yet, so I can't tell you a name. I can tell you that he was high at the time of his death."

Taking the second printout from him, she studied it closely. "Elevated drug levels, but not that high. Let me guess – he died of apparent heart failure."

"Right, but there's the same damage to the vein we found in Mr. Dough. A John Doe and Mr. John Dough. I've never had that before," he mused. "What's even more interesting is that that vein was in his leg. None of his other track marks were there, and there's no sign that I can find that he ever injected himself there."

"Implying that he had 'help'. Have you exhumed the other bodies yet?"

"No."

His tone caused Sara to tilt her head in confusion. "Are you planning to?"

"I'd rather not," he said, easing himself into his chair and holding out his hand to stop her questions. "Two of the first five potential visitors originally came from somewhere other than Las Vegas. The families had the bodies shipped home. It's hard enough to get a court order for an exhumation in state."

"Yeah," she sighed. "What about the others?"

"One body was cremated. One body was in poor condition by the time it was found, so there's a good chance I couldn't find any damage to the veins that was definitively caused by a corrosive substance."

"And the last one?"

Robbins huffed out a long breath and gave her a sheepish smile. "The odds are that at least one of those men really did die of natural causes. This investigation is shaky enough as it is. If we happen to exhume the one body that did die from natural causes, it's not going to help the case any."

"Right. It looks like a wild goose chase. Which you don't do," she teased.

"No, that's why I have you."

"You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"So my wife tells me," he said with a wink. "I did do you a favor. I had David swab the entire body. Those and his clothes were sent to Trace to look for potassium chloride."

"Let's hope the killer was sloppy," she said. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome," David called out sarcastically from his table.

"You, too, David."

On the way back to the lab, she mentally reviewed the details they had. Nothing was suspicious about any of the apparent overdoses except the frequency. Unfortunately, that meant the investigations had been cursory at best. There was no way to find physical evidence after this much time, so she had limited information with which to work.

"Hey, Hodges," she called out as she entered Trace. "Do you have anything from those samples the morgue sent up?"

"You mean looking for potassium chloride? Do you really think there's a mercy killer putting junkies out of their misery? Actually, I guess they'd be putting the city out of its misery by killing addicts."

"The results?" she asked sharply. "Any potassium chloride?"

"Yes, but that's not all. There's also fumaric acid, tricalcium phosphate and monocalcium phosphate," he said, pausing significantly with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm really not in the mood for a game of Twenty Questions."

"You give up too easily. Your dead junkie was using a salt substitute. Or more likely stealing food from the trash of someone who uses a salt substitute."

"Damn," she swore forcefully. "If there was any potassium chloride from another source, it's been masked by this."

"Hmmm. Don't you find it ironic that they market salt as a salt substitute? All they do is replace the sodium chloride with other salts."

"No," she said, leaving his lab. Swearing under her breath, she read over the results again. The setback multiplied her frustration and her exhaustion.

Reaching her workstation, she eyed her empty coffee cup and headed to the break room. Staring at the sludge-like coffee in the bottom of the pot, she debated making a fresh pot but decided not to take the time. She added plenty of extra sugar and creamer, took a sip and grimaced. It was foul tasting, but it served its purpose of keeping her awake.

With a yawn, she added more sweetener and dropped into one of the chairs. As she waited for the sugar and caffeine to kick in, she reviewed her notes and debated what evidence needed to be processed first.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She jumped at Greg's voice, sloshing her coffee on the table. Turning to face him, she grinned when he held up a thermos.

"Life is too short to drink bad coffee," he intoned darkly before tsking in disapproval. "And I use the term 'coffee' loosely when referring the stuff the brew here. Besides, I figured I owed you."

"I don't know what for, but I'm not going to turn down some of your coffee," Sara said, getting up to wash out her mug quickly.

"For this afternoon. I was only teasing you about a boyfriend. I wasn't trying to get you upset."

"Not a problem."

Greg gave his head a brief nod. "If you want to keep secrets from your prized and favorite student, not to mention good friend, who am I to complain?" he added with a dramatic sigh.

"Someone who needs to be pouring coffee," she replied, forcing herself to sound casual. He was joking, but his ribbing was hitting a sensitive area. She didn't like having to deceive her friends.

Sensing she didn't want to talk about it, he changed the subject quickly. "Have you been here all day?"

"Yeah, started on the evidence, did some research. Nothing too useful so far," she said, bringing him up-to-date as they finished their coffee.

"Did anyone from graveyard handle any of the cases?" he asked as they headed for the evidence vault.

"Warrick. The second one. Thomas Allen. Swing and day handled the rest," she said, recalling the details. "It was almost three weeks ago. I don't know if he'll remember much, but we can ask him."

They were heading back to the labs when Brass rounded a corner and nodded in her direction. "I got your message," the detective said as he moved to her side. When he helped her with a box of evidence, she grinned a small, wicked smile.

"Thanks, snuggle bunny," she said in a syrupy voice.

She darted down into the Layout room quickly, with Brass raising an eyebrow at the raucous laughter coming from the hallway.

"Inside joke," she said.

"Of course it is," he answered dryly. "Besides, everyone knows I'm more of a huggy bear."

"If you say so."

Brass shrugged. "Hey, I still have hope. I mean even Grissom has a girlfriend."

Her eyes darted to the side quickly. He was watching her with what appeared to be an amused expression, but there was something in his look that made her suspect that he knew. Dropping her head, she concentrated on unpacking the first box of evidence. Whenever she looked up, he kept watching her with a curious smile.

She doubted that Grissom had confided in him, but Brass did overhear his confession to Dr. Lurie, so he knew how he felt. And he was the only one to notice her drinking. If anyone noticed their relationship, it probably was him.

"Really?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. She'd seen him use a similar approach to draw suspects in, getting them to reveal more information.

"Well, from what Catherine tells me, it's what the rest of the team suspects."

That statement stunned her, but she tried to contain her surprise. "Uh, huh."

Brass watched her carefully, his tone still light but more cautious. "Well, Nick suspects. Gil's been happier, not working as much, shaved. Nick thought that was why Grissom went on sabbatical."

"Grissom had a girlfriend here, so he flew a few thousand miles away?" she snorted.

"I never said it was a good theory," Brass conceded. "I think Nicky didn't think that part out."

She shrugged and turned away to put the empty box away. "Unless it's his way of calling it off."

"Is that what you think is going on?"

Again, she glanced in his direction, and his concern was obvious. Swallowing, she shrugged off his question. Even if she felt free to talk to him about it, she didn't have any answers.

That was the core of her concerns – she didn't know what was going on with Grissom or why he felt the need to take a sabbatical. Was he unhappy with her, or did he need to get away from the job before he burned out? Did he want to avoid concerning her with his problems, or didn't she warrant the consideration?

She had no idea. While she wasn't an expert on relationships, she knew that couldn't be a good sign.

Noticing that Brass was still staring at her, she smiled nervously. "I think trying to figure out Grissom's motives is asking for a headache."

"I don't know about that," he said, giving her a small smile. "Grissom isn't that hard to figure out."

"Are we talking about the same guy?" she joked, her laughter genuine.

Brass rolled his head as he grinned. "Yeah. But you have to remember he's the ultimate uber-geek. Gil's first words were probably quoting Shakespeare. In Latin. He's not exactly the type that women go for."

Sara frowned, refraining from commenting, but she noticed the gleam in his eye.

"Look, in the first twelve years that I knew Gil, he could count the number of times he had sex on one hand. Not including what he had with his hand."

"That's way too much information," she said, continuing to resist the urge to come to Grissom's defense. If Brass was fishing for information, she wasn't going to fall for it.

"Well, in the past year or two, he's been different. More alive, happy," he said in a quiet voice.

Sara licked her lips nervously and stole another glance. He appeared serious, with no sign of his jovial mood remaining. Picking up the first photograph, she had to fight back a grin. She had made Grissom happy enough that others noticed. That had to mean something, but it was hard to reconcile it with his sudden departure.

"What I'm saying is, if Gil finally found someone he can connect with, he's not going to give that up. I don't know why he split town, but he's going to be back," Brass said. "Count on it."

"If you say so," she said, clearing her throat as she held up a folder. "About the case."

"Right," he said, pausing to give her another undecipherable look. "Six addicts killed with a poison that you can't find. That's what I like about you, Sara. You're not afraid of a challenge."

His joking tone carried an undercurrent that she ignored. "Uh, yeah. We're trying to find a link between the victims. The killer had to inject them, which suggests it's personal, but I haven't seen anything obvious."

"I'll see what I can find for you. Need anything else?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I just need to get this stuff processed. We don't have a lot to go on so far."

"Sure."

Sara watched as he walked away, biting the inside of her lip. "Jim," she called out when he reached the door. "Thanks."

Smiling at his wink, she finished spreading out the various photographs. She worked most of the shift on various tasks without a break except for more of Greg's coffee. Toward dawn, she went to check the status of her evidence in the various labs before heading into the locker room.

As she entered the shower, she tried to focus on the case, but she kept drifting back to her conversation with Brass. While reassuring on one level, it bothered her at others.

Standing under the hot water, she closed her eyes. It was hard to believe that Grissom had been nearly celibate for so long. True, he'd been extremely … eager … their first time, but he certainly knew what he was doing. She didn't care how well read he was, some things had to be practiced in order to learn them. Of course, it was something he wasn't likely to forget.

Social interactions weren't his strong suit, and it had amazed her when she realized that he had no idea that he was as sexy as hell. He'd stare open-mouthed at showgirls backstage, but he never noticed they were checking him out. It wasn't a behavior she expected from someone with a lot of casual encounters.

She often thought that he had been hurt in the past, and that accounted for some of his hesitation in entering the relationship. But now she considered that it wasn't a bad experience but a lack of experiences that were at the root of his behavior. It was an idea that was hard for her to accept, but Jim was one of the few friends Grissom had. If anyone knew, it would be him.

But she couldn't ask him, and that was an issue that troubled her.

She valued her privacy as much as Grissom, and she wasn't talkative about personal information to begin with – a fact that probably had frustrated her PEAP counselor. But there was a difference between not telling their friends about their latest romp in the bedroom and deliberately misleading them. She hated having to deceive Greg, or having to wonder if Brass was pulling her leg or was trying to be helpful. It wasn't something friends did to one another.

She understood the need for discretion. If nothing else, Ecklie would give them hell over their relationship, possibly forcing them to go on separate shifts. Secrets always came out, and this was a big one. If they didn't control how it was revealed, it had the potential to hurt them professionally.

She loved Grissom without question, and she hoped his sabbatical didn't signal a problem with their relationship. But she didn't know where they stood. Assuming he came back to her, how were they going to handle their friends? Would they have to keep it hidden until he decided to retire? Would she ever be able to invite the guys over for pizza again?

Stepping out of the shower, she dried off slowly before dressing. She knew worrying about things was pointless; she'd learn what was going to happen when he got home. Nothing she did or didn't do now was going to impact that. Besides, she had no answers, and she was too tired to think through things rationally. That meant she was too tired to be working without at least a few hours sleep, and the break room table wasn't a comfortable place to nap. Knowing that she'd feel better after something to eat and rest, she grabbed her bag and left.

Thoughts of going home were tempered by the knowledge that she'd be alone once she got there.

_TBC_


End file.
